by Gerry House
I smiled, too, and said, “Maybe he recognizes Daddy’s voice.”
Chris pressed ahead. “No, he hears the word and knows what it means. I say smile and he does.”
I asked as gently as I could, “So, your baby speaks English in the womb?”
Dad swelled up and said, “Yes, isn’t that amazing?” The conversation continued on from there, but I was kind of reeling at the incredible news of the fetus that was already communicating with the outside world.
When I was driving home, my cell phone rang, and it was Jamie O’Neal of “There Is No Arizona” and “When I Think about Angels” hit records. We’re great friends, and I love her. She is also one of the most amazing singers on the planet. She did several demos of my songs and lifted them to a better place. It’s scary how good she is.
Jamie paused and said, “Did I just hear Chris Cagle say his kid can understand English and he’s not even born yet?” I confirmed what she’d heard. “Wow,” Jamie almost sang (which is just how her voice is). “That is about the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever heard.”
I told her, “Yeah, but he’s a proud father-to-be and maybe a little excited.”
Jamie replied, “Excited is one thing, but that is pretty out there. An unborn talking baby! I just wanted to make sure I heard what I heard this morning.” We made plans to catch up soon and said good-bye.
You know what? Sometimes the excitement of fatherhood causes you to have an unborn English-speaking baby. (Or to think you have one.) It’s a miracle, as I know from having Autumn, the most amazing daughter anyone ever had. I haven’t seen Chris in quite awhile, but I hope he’s somewhere singing “What a Beautiful Day.”
The Flatts
AS I WALKED PAST the bedroom, I heard a frustrated search going on. Drawers were being opened and closed, and my wife was talking out loud to herself. She was obviously hunting for something she needed that very moment. I half-shouted, “What did you lose, honey bun?” She gave that vague “to herself and not to me” answer, “I can not find my under-why-er.” That’s how she said it. Under-WHY-er. Look, the girl grew up in Kentucky and had lived in Tennessee for most of her life, but I didn’t remember her accent being so strong.
This was rural, in-the-sticks stuff. It sounded like people who pronounce words like “cold” as “code.” Or if they are enjoying the fried catfish, it’s DEE-lish-ious. It’s country-speak, where one-syllable words suddenly have three, and cities like “Shelbyville” turn into one syllable—“Shelbv’l.”
I wandered in to examine her newfound speech patterns in person and to also watch her search. She usually loses something, especially on trips. Often I wake up hearing the sounds of a thousand zippers in rapid-fire succession. Vroop-vroop-vroop, as she zips and unzips the hundreds of pockets and travel bags and luggage compartments looking for something of exalted value.
“Did you just say you can’t find your under-WHY-er?” I half mocked. At the moment, she was bent over with her head almost in a bottom drawer of the Chester Drawers (which is how everybody in Kentucky refers to that large cabinet in the bedroom). She looked up and announced in a slightly frustrated voice, “Yes, it’s a special bra I just bought. It’s called the Underwire.” Ohhhhh, so it’s not her accent changing, it’s her clothes! Of course, I then celebrated the fact she needed such support. She usually gives me a disgusted look whenever I appreciate her talents. The woman is impossible to please. Suddenly it was an Aha! moment. There, among scores of frilly lavender unmentionables (that I just mentioned), she snatched out a silky piece of dangling garment and pronounced it as her Under-why-er.
All this is to bring me to my story of the Flatts. Rascal Flatts—Gary LaVox, Joe Don Rooney, and Jay DeMarcus—known mostly on the “Row” and in radio as the Flatts.
If you combined the Everly Brothers and the Gibb Brothers and the Marx Brothers, you’d get Rascal Flatts. They are that wonderful gumbo of great musicianship, songwriting, and general wackiness. Because one of my closest friends, Trey Turner, was their manager through much of their successful career, I was connected to them a bit.
Gary LaVox is, to me, the iPhone 5 of singers. You just wonder how it works. I’ve been in studios and watched it. I’ve written songs with him and watched it. It just comes so effortlessly, it kind of makes you angry. Nobody should be able to sing like that with one tonsil tied behind his back. He is LaVox, i.e., “The Voice.” If you listen closely to Gary sing, you’ll notice he also uses all the notes. If the melody is near several other notes, by God, he’ll sing those, too, just in case you want to hear every note close to the real note. If notes were people, he’d be China.
The funny thing to me is that, instead of wowing a crowd of 20,000 rabid fans, Gary is just as happy sitting in a duck blind at five in the morning in thirty-degree rain. You haven’t lived ’til you’ve waited for Gary to show up on his motorcycle with a German pot on his head. I’ve argued with him for years that the sport of hunting ain’t all that sportin’. He couldn’t care less and lives to look down the barrel of a weapon at the unluckiest deer in the world. He’s as quick as anybody I know with a quip and is generous with his time. And I’ve never seen his wife naked.
Joe Don Rooney is the quiet sex symbol. I have played golf with Joe Don and his dad several times, and I know the little acorn is near the oak. His father is a gentle soul. Joe Don listens and cares. He also has a freaky Barry Gibb falsetto that you probably don’t know you’ve heard singing up above Gary. Joe Don is also married to Tiffany Fallon. Tiff is a Playboy Playmate of the Year. She had apparently visited the radio station where I worked one afternoon. In my studio on my soundboard, she left a Playboy folded out and had signed it in a low and lusty place. I have never seen Gary LaVox’s wife naked.
The final member of the group is the one I’m probably closest to, Jay DeMarcus. He’s also married to an Allison. She’s a babe, too. These guys all hit the Lovely Lottery. Jay’s a bass player, a singer, a songwriter, and a producer. Check out his work on the last Chicago album. He also has a golf swing that isn’t supposed to exist in nature. Defying all natural laws of physics and luck, he can swat the white pill forward in jaw-dropping swoops and curves. Joe Don can whack it, too, but Jay is his own special category.
As Trey (then the Flatts’ manager) and I stood on a tee somewhere, he mentioned a Flatts song, “I’m Movin’ On.” My producer, Devon, had already discovered this tune on her own and had played it for me with that “Listen to this” look that people get. She was right. The story I got later was that “I’m Movin’ On” was rejected by some people at the record company to even be recorded. Then it was rejected as an album cut. It was certainly never going to be a single release. Guess who played it. Guess who deserves zero credit for anything other than listening to people who knew an amazing song when they heard it. It was one of those wonderful warm exciting moments when you see a song being born. Trey drove their label’s record execs around Nashville to record stores. (Remember when they actually had stores full of records for sale?) The Rascal Flatts bin was empty. People, ultimately the smartest or worst judges of hit songs, had heard it a few times and immediately said the magic words, “Where can I buy that?” I can’t tell you the number of times people have called me to inquire where they might purchase a song I was playing. I always told them area muffler shops or flea markets in Uruguay. They accepted my answer and, I assume, headed to Midas.
I’ve also been told by the Flatts themselves that “I’m Movin’ On” changed their careers. Suddenly, they were on another level. Their audience was bigger than ever, and it ignited a rocket under them. They are gracious to say I played the thing, but the truth is they made the thing. They wanted that song. They sang that song. The Flatts are stars because of their own talents.
As far as I can determine, Gary LaVox has never seen my wife naked. Or even in her under-why-er.
Taylor Swift
I HAD NO IDEA she was only fifteen when I met her in Nashville at BMI during a performing rights soir
ee, where the organization’s songwriters and publishers, as well as numerous artists, gather annually to honor the music. She was being escorted by one of the nicest guys in the business, Scott Borchetta, who runs Big Machine Records.
Scott and I have a long history and friendship. It was Scott who worked one of my songs that had been recorded by George Strait called “The Big One,” and made it the No. 1 song in the nation. I also knew his father from his record promotion business.
Scott’s blonde, elegant, and amazingly mature “date” at BMI that evening was Taylor Swift, who was the first artist he had signed to his then fledging label. I didn’t know who she was back some eight or nine years ago, but I did know I was truly impressed with her. As we chatted for some time before the ceremony began, we discussed her writing and her singing and her dreams. I remember watching her walk away, thinking she was probably going to get everything she wanted.
Scott did his job. A lot of people take credit for Taylor Swift. Certainly her parents, who moved to nearby Hendersonville to let their daughter take a shot at the big spotlight, deserve the “belief” award. But it’s Mr. Borchetta, in all his Italian designer clothes glory, who deserves the “genius” award. He put it all on the line and started a company, raised the money, hired the right people, and set forth on a run of success rarely seen in any business. It’s always easy to look back and say, as I do, that this person or that person has “got it.” It’s a lot tougher to actually do the work, take the risk, and make the decisions based solely on a gut instinct that somebody can break through.
For an artist to succeed, it’s actually pretty rare—a combination of luck and sweat and songs and looks—and an angel or two. Taylor Swift had all those things and more. She had beauty, brains, and a laser vision of where she was going that I’ve never seen in anyone so young. And, “bonus time,” she’s funny, with comedic timing and a sense of improv that is a natural gift. Throw in “hit songwriter” in the star-making machine and what you get is the Taylor of today.
Taylor happened to be a guest on my radio show the same day that a large group from Leadership Music was visiting me at the station. Leadership Music is a great program where a select group of executives representing different sides of the business converge for a full day once a month to learn from each other. Taylor waltzed into the studio in a gossamer summer dress, carrying a big guitar and an even bigger smile. I interviewed her not really knowing much about her, except that Scott believed in all her tomorrows. She sang, she was funny, she laughed. She threw her head back and just let loose. Everyone in the room loved her, most of all me.
Thus began a radio romance. I played each new song with an honest enthusiasm about how great it was. Meanwhile, her father wrote me notes about his kids listening to me around the breakfast table before high school classes and said how great it was to be listening and laughing together. I got a call from her every now and then. She tweeted with great humor something I said about her, such as when I said her dad was walking around Hendersonville in a white robe and an aluminum hat. Like all teenagers, Taylor seemed to enjoy poking fun at her parental unit.
The hits started, and so did the press. The Big Machine was cranking up and starting to fire on all cylinders. TS was no BS and on her way. I even suggested she was about to get so successful she would soon make a gospel album called Lord and Taylor.
One day, we were preparing some commercials to hype the station, and the star who was originally going to do the promotional “spots” with me had to cancel. Yours truly suggested that we ask the new young blonde singer to do the commercials with us. Let me be clear: we were very much the recipients of goodwill when Taylor agreed to do them for the little exposure she received in return. The spots were funny and goofy and promoted her. The ads also promoted us as connected to this social whirlwind; it was a win-win for all.
Even then, three short years into the process, Taylor was fast becoming a star. Once, as she left the studio after a short visit, I said, “You’re getting so big, in six months we’ll never hear from you again.” She apparently put a note into her phone, and six months later, to the day, she called just to prove us wrong. It was delightful. It sounds calculated, but even more, it was smart, professional, and just plain good.
Taylor started to orbit further out from us after that. I couldn’t have been happier for anybody. I used to worry a little that she’d become the “dog that caught the pickup.” I’ve seen that happen: somebody wants it so badly, and then suddenly they get it, and it all breaks down. Stardom is power. At a fragile age, it can often just ruin a person. We all know the drill. But I had no fear for Taylor. If ever there was somebody with her feet so firmly planted in reality, it was her. I never even heard a typical Music Row rumor about her. The Golden Girl was truly gold.
One morning I arrived at the studio to find a package lightly wrapped, addressed to me. It was a painting—a heart with wings, flying into a blue, starry sky. Written across the top were the words, “Because you believed in me.” It was hand-painted and signed by Taylor. It meant so much. A gesture like that, so personal and carefully done . . . it was amazing. I put it on the wall and looked at it almost every day. The truth was, I really hadn’t done anything other than talk to her, interview her, and enjoy her from afar. But she appreciated it and sent me a little reminder of that. Taylor Swift is that rare person who rode the rocket to stardom at such a young age and never lost her balance. Wow.
I WILL TELL THIS STORY from my side. It’s all I got.
It’s another BMI songwriters’ awards banquet. The same Music Row event where I’d first met a young, blonde teenage wannabe eight years before. At the bar I bumped into a guy who said, “My daughter loves you.” Of course, I immediately wanted to hear more from this intelligent speaker of wonderfulness. It was Taylor’s dad. He regaled me with the old “family/aluminum hat” stories again. The conversation ended with, “She wants to see you. Come over to our table and say hi.”
Now let me describe the BMI Awards. It’s not the Kennedy Center Honors. It’s a big deal, but it’s the music business. People are roaming all over the room during the ceremonies. Jody Williams, the head of BMI’s Nashville operations, happily calls out a song title, and the writers leap onstage for a picture. Fellow writers applaud and jeer and hoot. Half the crowd is standing at the bar as if it’s a honky-tonk. Major country stars mingle around and look for their table numbers, just as everyone else does. It’s kind of like the Golden Globe Awards with hats. A good-time free-for-all of glitz and camaraderie and too much wine. My idea of a perfect evening.
Halfway through the night, I slipped out of my chair and plopped down between Ms. Swift and her pa. Now, I might have walked into something. I know she had just gotten an award. It could have been bad timing. There was a lot going on. Oh God, little fifteen-year-old Geraldine is about to surface. But I did not get the reception I thought I would. It was not a massive, warm-loving hug that was my usual greeting. Not even a quick hug. Not a gentle welcome touch on the arm. Dad stared straight ahead and Ms. TS gave a short sideways glance and a noncommittal, “Hey.”
I looked around for the cameras. I was thinking, This is pretty good. I’ve been set up. Dad asks me over, and they are going to act like they don’t know me. But there were no cameras, there was no setup. They just acted like they didn’t know me. After a long and embarrassing few minutes, I slowly did the walk of shame back to my seat. I remember legendary songwriter Don Schlitz yelling at me, “Hey, you working the room?” Apparently not, Donnie Boy.
I had noticed a sadness once before in Taylor during an interview. It was one of the times she was on the show and had broken up with “insert-name-here.” I didn’t know it at the time, but it was her birthday, and her heart was a little broken. I felt sorry for her. But she was a pro and said all the right things. She was a little cryptic, but she hung in there.
On this evening, however, Taylor was the last person I ever expected to be brushed off by. Again, to be fair, I might hav
e wandered in at the wrong time. My choice of timing could have ruined a good moment. Usually, though, making the effort to tell someone to “hold on ’til this is over” is a fairly easy thing to do. If you’re in the middle of something else and an old pal drops by, at least acknowledge their existence with a “Love ya, but gotta do this now” moment.
I’ll survive somehow. I was a little bummed, as my wife will attest, but I’ve managed to overcome a small incident in a star’s life. I really can’t think of another instance like this one. It was surprising and unsettling, to say the least.
I know that even in my small walk of fame people have told me I didn’t speak to them at the grocery store. I usually ask, “Did you say ‘Hi’ and I ignored you?” “No, you just walked on by on your way to the cereal aisle.” Of course, this is from someone I do not know at all. They knew me and were offended I didn’t use my psychic powers to recognize them and say, “Hey.” So, little fifteen-year-old Gerry Girl needs to learn to understand people are busy. I’ll also say Gerry Girl has never made a career out of songwriting and acceptance speeches that enigmatically target one heart-breaker after another. There’s that.
Life goes on. I still watch Taylor with curiosity and wonder. What will she do for her next act? I hope it’s all good. She’s a big star who once painted a picture of a heart.
I gave the painting away.
The CMA
ONE OF THE GREAT ADVANTAGES country music has over other kinds of music, such as jazz, Gagaku (Japanese classical music), and Klezmer (Jewish dance music circa 1900) is that country has the Country Music Association. Search high and low, and you’ll find no Gagaku Music Association. The Gagaku people just don’t care. You could start with saying Gagaku or Klezmer causes brain damage and you would go unchallenged. Try it next time you’re among friends. Denounce atonal punk rock as dangerous to your mental abilities, and everyone will just go along. They’ll let you trash atonal punk rock (which is, frankly, not a bad thing to do).